


Compulsion

by sirenofodysseus



Category: The Mentalist
Genre: Blow Jobs, Bondage, Humilation, M/M, Sorry Not Sorry, post-s2, written because I can
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-10
Updated: 2015-01-10
Packaged: 2018-03-06 22:17:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3150272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sirenofodysseus/pseuds/sirenofodysseus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post S2. Because as much as he hates Red John, he is a hot-blooded male. Red John/Jane.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Compulsion

**Author's Note:**

> Yeeeeeah. First fic of 2015 and I've decided to write this. I'm either crazy or just wanting something twisted to sink my teeth into. ;)
> 
> As usual, I own nothing!

When he arrives, he’s inattentive to all the minor details.

 

_The dark footprints on the wooden floor, the stinging smell of antiseptic, the sensation that someone is watching…_

 

He tosses his keys on the side table and wishes, not for the first time, that he was anyone but Patrick Jane. He wishes he could be Teresa Lisbon, or Kimball Cho, or Grace Van Pelt or Wayne Rigsby; he wishes he could be _someone_ , who actually still has something to live for instead of a damn ghost.

 

Patrick Jane’s no quitter, but sometimes, he thinks _death has to be easier than this_. He’s never believed in the afterlife and he’s stopped believing in second chances, so all he has left is his need for vengeance; his need to kill Red John with his bare hands, in cold blood.

 

Of course, he knows it won’t bring them back. It’ll just help him feel better for what he did, for what he said. (They tell him it wasn’t _his_ fault; but nobody ever places blame where it’s due, because it’s _rude_.) Jane’s never cared about rudeness or brashness or whatever Lisbon wants to call it.

 

He’s only cared about Red John, and everything else is simply white noise.

 

Mounting the stairs to his personal hell, he’s unobservant to the silence.

 

_The hallway light is on, his daughter’s door is ajar, and his air mattress is warm…_

He stares up at the smiley face.

 

Very few people are sorry, yet _he’s_ extremely sorry that his family had to pay for _his_ faults; that his wife and child had to suffer, because he couldn’t keep his _damned_ mouth shut. He shifts on the mattress and thinks, _I deserve…_

Something smashes into his skull and it all goes dark around him.

 

::::

 

When he awakes, his world is a fragmented mixture of dull colors and sharp sensations. He doesn’t feel his hands, his legs and his tongue is _terribly_ dry.  He thinks he should panic, he should struggle; but he can’t.

 

Everything _hurts_.

 

            “I see you’re awake, Mr. Jane,” he hears a high-pitched voice response and even in his state, his heart nearly stops. _Red John_. “I thought, for a moment, I had given you a little _too_ much.” He can’t seem to focus on the man, who is also with him; the man, he wants to kill with his bare hands. “But alas, you’re awake and here we are. I doubt I need to introduce myself to you.”

 

He tries to blink, tries to clear his vision; but he can’t see a thing worth remembering and he realizes with a lurch that he’s _alone_ and _defenseless_ with a psychopath.

 

            “Sssh,” he hears Red John tell him, feeling _something_ touch his lips. “We don’t have much time together, Mr. Jane. Your pet will eventually sniff your disappearance and come investigate.” Jane stiffens at the casual insult thrown at Lisbon, causing Red John to chuckle. “She let you _return_ here, knowing you were probably hiding something from her. I’ll have to thank her later.” He can hear the small smile in Red John’s voice and he begins to struggle, his senses slowly returning to him. The bastard won’t thank Lisbon; the _bastard_ won’t make it out alive when he’s able to regain the use of his hands. “I’ll spare you the monologue by just getting down to business.”

 

Before Jane can question Red John’s vague statement, he feels the man’s hands on his legs and feels the mattress shift beneath him. Red John remains quiet and Jane’s eyes widen at the distorted sound of a _zipper_ coming undone. The ceiling suddenly comes into full focus and Jane attempts to remove Red John from him to no avail. Red John is stronger. Red John is unyielding. Red John only _chuckles_ at his struggles. “Keep squirming for me, _Patrick_. I only wish I could hear you scream.”

 

Jane attempts to distract Red John with his wit, to piss the bastard off enough to _make_ him give the monologue of mistakes; but he can’t. Something is in his mouth. Something is preventing him from making a single sound. He tries to push the object out with his tongue, while Red John just continues to _chuckle_.

 

            “What a beautiful sight, I must admit,” Red John comments from above him. Jane doesn’t stop fighting, until he feels Red John’s hand seize the front of his boxer shorts. In horror, he attempts to buck against Red John. He has to escape. He has to kill Red John. But Red John has other ideas.

 

Red John merely massages Jane’s crouch, forcing a small groan out of him.

 

He feels his face flame. _This is wrong_.

 

Red John doesn’t stop.

 

He removes Jane’s boxers and whistles. “Impressive, Mr. Jane. I believe we’re going to have so much fun today.” Jane tries to fight Red John again and Red John’s hand grabs his cock, squeezing until Jane’s gasping behind his gag. He doesn’t want this. He doesn’t…he...

 

Jane feels Red John’s hand stroking his cock and he fights against reacting. The man’s fingers are calloused, and Jane thinks he must have a mundane career where he uses his fingers a lot. Carpenter? Musician? Writer? He feels Red John’s hands part his knees and feels one of the man’s fingers run against his opening, causing him to jerk.

 

_You bastard_ , he wants to scream.

 

He hears Red John hum.

 

He feels Red John’s finger slip into him and he attempts to thrust into the air, trying to fight Red John. Red John tsks at him. “Don’t you want comfort, _Patrick_?” He can’t help but shudder. “This doesn’t have to be so hard. You can enjoy this too.” Jane grits his teeth. He’ll never enjoy this. “I know I’m enjoying it; the way, you’re automatically becoming hard for me.” Jane feels Red John’s fingers moving around inside of him and he tries to think of things that _aren’t_ pleasurable. He thinks of his deceased wife, his deceased daughter and the ribbons of crimson, twisted in strands of blonde and bespattered upon their waxen skin. He thinks of strawberries and cream. He thinks of his first crime scene and he remembers the smell of death. He thinks of Red John, alive before him.

 

Suddenly, Red John’s fingers are gone and the man is silent. Jane agonizes. He has _no_ idea what Red John’s planning next, but he knows Red John isn’t done. Red John likes his mind games, and this, is a mind game that Jane refuses to lose.

 

He continues to grit his teeth, even after he feels Red John’s mouth working at his dick—sucking, stroking and licking. There’s nothing gentle about Red John’s assault and Jane (eventually) knows he’ll react again.

 

Because as much as he hates Red John, he is a hot-blooded male.

 

(And it has been years since he’s been touched, after all.)


End file.
